Bees and the Country
by JasNutter
Summary: A passage of time during which Sherlock Holmes learns to love and let go, hurt and grieve, and eventually find everything he ever hoped for.


When exactly he came to so deeply rely on John Watson was unknown to him, but Sherlock was fairly certain that the very moment he'd realized with a strange flip of his belly that the intrepid doctor had shot a man for him, he'd plummeted down straight into the deadly snarls of a dangerous chemical affliction. There was no escaping.

And how could there have been? They lived together and he was just always there, a balm to his every abrasion – and there were so, so many – a salve to his chaffed and stinging soul, always giving and always soothing, his generosity and unconditional faith so all consuming that Sherlock wanted to fall to his knees and beg and plead for his treacherous heart to stop. Stop! He did not deserve any of this in the first place.

In spite of protests and rebuttals, though, his heart burbled nonstop and his stomach swooped and blushes blossomed insistently at unstoppable fantasies. He parried and he parried and finally, with trepidation of heights he hadn't known in decades, he acquiesced, bleeding heart held out in palms in a tentative offering.

He had hardly been expecting the acceptance.

* * *

Waves of chemical release, blissful and just _cathartic_, as though he had found salvation to his frostbitten life he hadn't known would ever come. Satiated. Happy.

John stretched out languorously beside him.

"Oh that was so good", he said, sex laced voice low and gruff, his eyelids drooping. His hair stuck up in random directions from when Sherlock had carded his fingers through it, sweat gleaming across his broad chest. In the low light, he was absolutely stunning.

He looked to Sherlock, smiling softly, and Sherlock's veins were flooded with another rush of emotions, warming him. Claiming him. He smiled back.

They indulged often, sometimes fast and needy, sometimes slow and reverent, and Sherlock savored the moments after when John, always completely useless after making love, was laid out and still and he could curl up beside the strong, stocky body and drift off to sleep. Sleep that came so easily now, with his head on John's chest, steady thrum of a steady heart under his ear, the feel of one calloused hand splayed on his back, floating to dreams of bees and the country, old age and John. And contentment.

Contentment.

* * *

The fire was merry as ever in the hearth, and the only other light was from the telly. Sherlock lay across the couch, head on John's lap, feeling the slight rise and fall of his breath and idly counting them, warm Christmas dinner and wine making him sluggish. He murmured happily as John's fingers tousled his hair. John eventually got immersed in the Bond film of his choosing, and his hand stilled. Sherlock, annoyed, nudged the still hand with his curls. And did it again.

John chuckled above him and resumed his caress.

"You're like a house cat, you know that?"

"I am not!"

John laughed again. "You are."

"It helps me think", Sherlock scowled.

"Hmm."

John didn't ask for what he was thinking about, and Sherlock didn't say. The fact remained that his lover of a month, thirteen days and three hours took up most of Sherlock's mind when he wasn't hunched over a microscope or brooding over a case. His head was full of John, his heart was full of John; John was all he could smell, all he could taste. Three decades of aloofness and suddenly he was waxing poetry, putting John's needs before his own, servicing.

Loving.

He no longer knew what life had been like before John. What life would be like without him?

The thought made insecurity rear its terrible head. He nuzzled John's thigh, seeking comfort.

* * *

Sherlock's foray into the emotional world was limited and into the sexual world, it was non-existent. So obviously, the first time they stumbled past the threshold and onto the couch in a heated lip-lock Sherlock was fumblingly awkward, making John giggle. He led, though, sexually at least, and Sherlock's surprise at his mind-blowing skill set in bed was completely unfounded; the proficient coquetry Sherlock had witnessed time and again was nothing but an indicator of his prowess. It thrilled Sherlock as much as it scared him.

Would be always be able to sate John's needs?

Theirs was a relationship far from smooth, a teeter totter of highs and lows – the highs exhilarating and the lows terrifying. With the pleasant security of warm reciprocation quickly fading, Sherlock despised that constant ache of uncertainty throbbing dully at his navel.

It was never on tenuous grounds. He never knew how John felt about him.

John was far from tactile with him publicly and sometimes privately, even, when it was only just himself and Mrs. Hudson, (who obviously knew, for god's sake). Sherlock couldn't fathom why, because with his parade of girlfriends there was always a held hand, always one arm around a shoulder. He had tried various times, in sudden flurries of affection, to reach for one gloved hand, to plant one chaste kiss. The slight grimace and dodge he was met with? It hurt. That rejection? There was no other way he could phrase it, it just hurt.

They had yet to tell anyone of their 'involvement', as John put it, but of course Mycroft, the meddling idiot, knew. The disapproving looks were a menace to deal with in the first place – the discourse that accompanied it made Sherlock want to throw himself off something very tall, and pull his brother down with him.

"He doesn't love you, Sherlock. It doesn't matter what you think you know, because you're pitifully wrong. The doctor is used to casual relationships, with friends or otherwise. He can't give you what you obviously want."

"He won't even acknowledge his relationship with you, Sherlock. He's embarrassed of this affair. How long do you think he'll be with you before he's looking from someone else he can embrace without a worry? Someone he can take home to his family?"

Sherlock had thrown his cup at him.

Truth be told, it wasn't the vivisection that pierced him; it was the fact that it was true, and he knew it and he didn't require Mycroft to enunciate it. Sherlock would admit to himself in painful moments of self deprecation, that of course John was ashamed. Freak, machine, homicidal psychopath – John got enough strange looks just living with Sherlock. Of course he wouldn't want to be seen holding hands with him, kissing him. Who would?

So Sherlock took what he got, and he relished in it. He relished in the naked admiration of his intellect, the warmly returned hug, soft kisses in the early morning, the quiet love making at the dead of the night. He relished in the fact that he could lay his head on a sweat glazed chest, and dream dreams of bees and the country, of old age and John.

In the dead of the night, he could delude himself with hopes of forever.

* * *

John owned a hideous maroon, woolen jumper, too big for himself and too big for Sherlock, lumpy and unshapely. He wore it around the flat sometimes, and wore it to bed on particularly cold nights, but it probably hadn't been washed it years, because Sherlock had stolen it months ago and it still smelled of John. It was soft and warm, kind in a way some inanimate objects were.

Sentiment.

John's smile when he saw his missing jumper on Sherlock still tugged at Sherlock's heart and filled his chest with warmth. He later took to wearing it to bed.

* * *

The consternation had settled into a chilly numbness that made his ribs ache and fingers hurt.

It was a long time coming, and Sherlock hadn't not noticed, because John's gazes were straying, his touches were perfunctory and his smile showed contrition. Already full of apology. John was holding out.

It was a long time coming, and when it came, it still came as a shock.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock", he said, shifting, and his distress was obvious. "I mean, I just need something serious now, you know. I want to settle down."

That's what I want, Sherlock wanted to say. There was so much he wanted.

John watched him in apprehension, and Sherlock's throat burned, salty droplets freezing behind eyeballs into prickly little icicles.

"Did you find someone?" Sherlock asked, an easy tone somehow working past the knot in his throat.

"Well, uh you know…It's not...we haven't actually", John hemmed and hawed, still shifting uncomfortably. If Sherlock could bring himself to look up from the petri dish he was mindlessly pretending to examine, he'd see the guilty concern.

"We've only talked, and she's…", he cleared his throat. "She's a primary school teacher. And uh – she's…"

His sentence faded into an embarrassed silence and for a minute Sherlock wanted him to continue. He wanted to know why she was better, what she could give John that he couldn't. He wanted to know why it was that John couldn't love him the way he so deeply, oh so dearly loved him.

But he already knew why.

He swallowed and tasted a hint of blood; he'd been biting his tongue.

John was a good man. If Sherlock broke down like he wanted to, if he insisted John stay, stay and grow old with him, love him, he knew John would. John would abandon whatever it was that had sparked, he'd discard whatever it could have been with this woman, and he'd honest to god try his very best with Sherlock.

Playing on that guilt, however, would be far past disgustingly selfish. Even for him.

And so Sherlock struggled for equanimity, struggled to steel himself, shoving harshly down the emotions that rose and frothed like an angry sea inside him.

"It's fine, actually. No problem", he said, and he finally mustered enough repose to look up and meet John's pleading gaze. "It was getting boring anyway."

The stark relief was palpable and Sherlock felt as though the room was suddenly void of any oxygen, as though there was a dead weight pressing against his throat and chocking him. He had to get out of there. The dish was set down with a clatter.

"Where are you going?" he heard John nervously ask from behind him. His reply was brusque before he hurried out.

"Bart's. Need to examine a specimen."

The cold air outside hit him with a dizzying force. Reeling, he flagged down a cab.

* * *

Sherlock was wont to keep sentiment under control; a habit formed from such an early age and practiced with such rigor for years and year was not liable to be so breakable. His fortress was guarded. His walls were thick. It was hardly his fault John Watson had just walked through them and planted himself firmly within.

In retrospect, a part of him that was vaguely clear and unaffected by the clouding chemicals of love had known from the very beginning of the abysmally short affair that the bleeding heart so proffered had never been accept; never acknowledged, actually. It had merely slipped down smeared palms and clung on precariously to his sleeve.

Sherlock Holmes wearing his heart on his sleeve.

His bitter laugh drew a questioning look from Molly, one which he ignored. They were in the morgue, was bitterness really so out of place?

He spent more time here than ever, and his pallor paler than ever and his face thinner than ever because the only times he remembered to eat were when Molly bought him coffee and an apple, or handed him half her sandwich. Most of the times she forgot to eat as well, bent over either cadavers or paperwork and he sometimes prodded her for tea only to placate the burning protests from his stomach…food was often like cotton in his mouth.

John was still majorly awkward around him, despite Sherlock pretending as though he'd deleted their entire 'involvement' as irrelevant, and Sherlock didn't know if their recently ended relationship was more painful than their suddenly strained friendship.

He spent more of his day at work, or, Sherlock irately surmised, with his girlfriend, and Sherlock, mainly to avert the memories, distract and comfort, turned to cadavers and blood samples and murder and research. Molly was more than compliant to give access, and sometimes Sherlock, only part listening to her dulcet murmurings, wondered vaguely if she knew. In his world thrown suddenly off balance, where the simplest quotidian tasks were tasking because all he wished to do was curl in on himself and waste away, her quiet and slightly lonely presence was comforting. The days passed by easier.

The nights were entirely a different ordeal.

Sherlock avoided entering his bedroom at all most nights, except to dress himself, opting to immerse himself in a case or take a kip in his chair. When tiredness took over and he felt faint, the bed called to him, and he called to sleep and sleep took no heed.

Sleep was hard to come by when there was no one to lay beside him.

He would lie for hours into the night sometimes, staring at the other side of the bed – John's side of the bed, where his solid form used to rest, pulsing with life under Sherlock's seeking fingers. Now his fingers skated cotton, and all that was left was the lingering smell that was John.

Sherlock had to grit his teeth and screw his eyes shut, swallowing heavily while his entire being tried to tear itself apart from visceral yearning, nails digging into a sweating palm, face sometimes buried in the maroon jumper that smelled just like John. If it was strange, he didn't care, the smell of John clinging to the soft wool was his only anchor some baleful nights.

John would never lie here beside him again, never caress him, never kiss him. He tried to think of their last kiss, and in a haze of broken thoughts, he wasn't sure which one it was.

Sometimes he thought of one prick of needle, just one vial of the clear chemical and there would be peace for his festering heart. There would be sleep and clarity. He then thought of just how much John would blame himself if he found out. John wouldn't even need the proof, he would blame himself anyway, account himself for Sherlock's misery.

So he calmed himself with the jumper and dreams and hopes instead.

* * *

It was many unstable months before they settled into their previously established dynamic again: John the doctor and blogger, Sherlock the enigmatic genius. It was a relief to have John beside him at crime scenes again, despite the pain in his chest from the lingering female perfume around John, because at least the snide jabs from Donavan ceased, not that he cared much for them. He really didn't.

It was always good to have someone genuinely appreciate what he did. Sherlock made peace with having the comfort of a friendship intact.

But of course, the flickering hope didn't stop creeping up on him, every 'brilliant', every steering touch, every time they came down from the high of the thrill of the chase, blood pumping hard and fast through their veins. Leaning against walls, panting and sweating, laughing uncontrollably, like so many times before, at the ridiculousness of what had just transpired. It would be so easy, so easy to lean down and press his lips against John's, to pull him close and lay his weary head on a shoulder. It would be so easy if John just saw how much he wanted this. Needed this.

Maybe John would return, maybe she'd be just another fling, (although it had lengthened to three months longer than his usual flings), and he'd return to Sherlock once again, just as always. Maybe he didn't know what he wanted yet.

Sherlock clung to this hope as though it were his life line in the middle of a riotous sea.

He hadn't met her yet, and John didn't speak of her, perhaps out of courtesy – or he merely thought Sherlock was obviously uninterested. There was a constant back and forth of emails and texts and phone calls and Sherlock, in a rare bout of self-preservation, didn't read them. She was called Mary, he knew, and he pretended constantly that he didn't.

"You'll be joining Marlene tonight?"

"Mary, Sherlock."

"Why can't you come? Date with Mabel?"

"Mary, Sherlock. And yes."

"Are you honestly considering bringing Mark over for Christmas?"

"Mary, Sherlock! Seriously! And yes, please don't be rude."

Sherlock decided, spitefully, that he would be.

And he ended up being polite. As polite as he could be anyway.

She was petite, smaller than John, and had a pleasant, doe-eyed prettiness that contrasted with Sherlock's sharp and sophisticated angles. Her eyes seemed to perpetually twinkle, and they twinkled up at him in what he could only describe as mischief as she shook his hand.

"Heard a lot about you, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock, please", he replied, trying to smile.

Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and even Molly were taken immediately by her dainty gestures and tinkling laughter. One glance told him all he had to know, and he wanted to loathe her.

She was perfect in every possible way he would never be. Sherlock watched John watch her, his gaze so tender that Sherlock wouldn't be surprised if he started shooting petals out of his eyes. Love. Adoration.

He turned away, sick to his stomach, and played a spectacularly desolate tune, which Mrs. Hudson sobbed happily to anyway. By the end of the night, he was left with too much wine and the subsequent nausea, watching the love of his life lead his giggling lover up the stairs.

He sat on the window ledge and chain smoked till dawn broke.

* * *

"I can get rid of her if you like", Mycroft's voice was low and pitying, irritating and alarming Sherlock at the same time. Was he honestly that obvious?

But of course, this was Mycroft he was talking to.

"You'll never see or hear from her again."

Sherlock look a long drag and exhaled, watching the smoke swirl out and travel upwards. The idea was so very tempting. Mary gone, John back at 221B, back into his arms maybe.

He thought about what would happen to him if he never saw or heard from John again and felt something inside him lurch painfully.

"No."

"No?" Mycroft sounded every bit of thoroughly taken aback, and Sherlock couldn't help but smirk. He didn't elaborate.

"My god", Mycroft's voice sounded strange, as though he were holding something back from forcefully erupting. "Are you sure?"

There was a long pause while Sherlock smoked and Mycroft gazed at him. He was worried. He was always worried. A steady dripping echoed around in the semi darkness of the warehouse.

"A life with Mary. That's what John wants", he said finally, quietly, resignedly. There was another pause while Mycroft assimilated and analyzed.

"And you?" His voice was soft, gentle. Sherlock hadn't heard it in years.

"I want what John wants."

* * *

By February, the flat was bleak and hollow, as was Sherlock, for either of them rarely stayed there. Since John had packed his bags, with a certain amount of penitence for leaving what he made a home for Sherlock, and with large proportions of exultance, he made his way out into a new life. Sherlock watched him go from the window, grip on hope slipping. He could feel the first of the undertow tugging at him, trying to bring him under.

Gone were the medical journals, that laptop Sherlock had gotten so accustomed to using, little trinkets across the flat that made it his and John's. There was hardly anything substantial John ever owned, he was neat and not one to hoard and clutter, but the flat felt as though a flood had washed everything out anyway.

Emotional lassitude followed and Sherlock dived into another dangerous chase until physical fatigue took over and his mind, burdened and weary, stuttered and shut down.

As he drifted off, he wished, like he always wished, for John beside him, a pointless whisper to no one listening.

* * *

John beamed up at him. A heady rush. Blood roaring in his ears.

"Me?"

John smiled wider and rested his warm hands on Sherlock's shoulders.

"You."

"Are you sure?"

John nodded. "There's no one else I can even imagine asking."

Bile rose to his chest. He took a breath.

"Alright."

"Alright?" There was an exhilarated shout of laughter. "You'll do it?"

The strangely dry wind of late September breezed past them in uncaring eddies.

"I will."

And John pulled him into a tight embrace, laughter brimming with unbridled joy. Sherlock couldn't help but smile, close his eyes and lean into the warmth. He hadn't been embraced in so long. It had been so very long.

John was still grinning when he pulled away.

* * *

It wasn't as trying as he thought it would be. Tuxedo, silver tie, flower in his buttonhole. Ring. Speech that made them laugh and a couple dab at their eyes. Mary and John grinned up at him.

He wondered if he could drown himself in the champagne.

He didn't think John would quite like that.

Customary smile in place, he twirled Mary around to her beautiful delight, lead Mrs. Hudson around the dance floor, even danced with John's sister, until John, much to the levity of the slightly drunk guests, asked if he could cut in, and cut in he did. They swayed lightly to the music.

"Your face might just split in half any second," Sherlock informed John.

John smiled wider. "How do you expect me to stop?"

They danced around the room. John was warm in his arms.

"I'm happier than I've ever been", he said, looking over Sherlock's shoulder, and then up at him. "This wouldn't have happened without you."

"Me?" He sounded so stupid, echoing John's words like that.

"You", John squeezed him. "You Sherlock Holmes, you saved my life. Thank god for Mike Stamford."

Sherlock swallowed. And blinked repeatedly. And cleared his throat.

"Are you about to cry?"

He was. The corners of his eyes were prickling, his fingers itching. He grimaced and looked away.

"Thanks, Sherlock." John's quite nearly whispered, and Sherlock looked through his blurry vision to find John's slightly teary smile. "Thank you."

All too soon, John was off to some blistering hot island with his wife, Mrs. Hudson was sniffling still, and Sherlock was back in his chair by the fire huddled in the too big jumper, lighting one cigarette with the burning end of another and playing John's words over and over again in his mind.

Thank you.

* * *

It was the best and the worst decade of Sherlock's life, for, although the turmoil had fairly settled, his love for John only strengthened, his longing increasing to the point where he caught himself stopping to wistfully gaze at happy couples. It was shameful and pedestrian and there were too many damned happy couples in the world.

It was a deep seated sorrow he could not dislodge; so undeviating that he didn't even notice it any longer.

He lived for the days when he'd see John.

It was the decade Sherlock learned to see, not just the separate minute details but the bigger parts of the whole, different lives spanning out across continents, from the buzz of Bolognese cafes with their permanent aroma of coffee to the quiet of the kitchen tucked into a wall in the streets of Kathmandu, where the glass of the broken windows were broken so long that what should've been jagged edges were smooth, not unlike himself. He watched the lights of northern skies coalesce into beautiful iridescent colours and always, with a sharp pang in his chest, wished John was there to see them with him.

And when John called, and he always did eventually, Sherlock wrapped up his cases, tied his notes together, committed lifestyles and dialects and the very beauty of diverse ethnicity to memory to tell John and Mary about over a plate of Mary's cooking, and made his way to London. Not soon after, they'd be ripping through London together, gun in hand and adrenalin surging through veins, hunting and chasing down another criminal at large.

And Mary, sweet Mary. Mary, who he could not bring himself to hate, for she had brought that cozy completion to John's life that he had been unable to. Mary would make them tea after.

He was in Cairo when it happened; uncovering the most indigenous smuggling scheme he had ever come across. He got the e-mail two days too late, and almost keeled over in shock when he read it.

Mary passed away. Funeral arrangements. Come home when you can, please.

The immediate flight home was distressing, his stomach turning unpleasantly and Sherlock almost bore a hole through the floor with his incessant, anxious foot tapping. Fighting three days worth of sleepless nights and a horrific jet lag, he rushed past terminals and hurriedly threw himself into a cab.

Where are you? – SH

Baker Street.

Ten minutes after ripping through the streets, Sherlock, teeth rattling around his mouth, didn't stop for change and bounded up the stairs.

The flat was like he'd left it, like it'd been through the long years. John was in his chair, barefooted and more forlorn than Sherlock had ever seen him, bags under his eyes, the silver of his hair matching the silver at Sherlock's temples. He looked up to greet him, mouth lined and drawn. He tried a feeble smile, Sherlock returned it feebly.

"You look terrible", John said quietly.

Sherlock said nothing, and strode to his own chair.

"What happened?"

John shrugged, his eyes hollow.

They sat in silence, John staring vacantly into space, Sherlock staring at John, resisting the urge to get up and pace and rage. How could this happen to John? Why?

"She was at her sister's", John was talking again, so softly that Sherlock had to lean it to hear it. "She was at her sister's and she had this sudden –", his voice broke and he cleared his throat, starting to rock back and forth slightly. It was all Sherlock could do not to reach out, unsure if his touch would help. Unsure of how to help. "Cardiac arrest. She died of a cardiac arrest. I –", he broke off and swallowed.

They sat in sad, still silence, unmoving until the night had fully shrouded them in dark.

The funeral preparations were tedious and painful, and John insisted on handling everything by himself despite Sherlock's numerous offers to arrange everything. Sherlock supposed it wasn't a bad thing, having something to do through the day. They sat by the night in silence, unsleeping, for John's stoical grief kept Sherlock awake. Sleep didn't come easily anyway.

He moved mechanically, didn't talk unless he had to. Grim lines were drawn across his sad face, suddenly so tired and aged. Sherlock watched him shuffle aimlessly, fiddling with things, ambling through the days, and he felt so helpless, unable to relieve, unable to shoulder the pain.

He watched John through the funeral, stony and stiff, and he watched him break down in the cab, huge gut wrenching sobs wracking through his body, leaning into Sherlock, who furiously blinked back tears, heart aching for John. It was in that moment that he and prayed to entities he didn't believe in – Please, oh please let me die before him. I can't go through this.

Sherlock tried to stay in London and around the flat as much as he could, solving cases through the phone and the internet. John moved back in, unable to stay in the small home he and Mary shared. Sherlock knew of the technique – averting the memory, distracting, comforting. He employed it.

There were hours of grief and loss, and Sherlock did everything he could think of, from tea to impromptu violin concertos at three A.M to cases and dinner. He forced John to eat when he did, sometimes rambled on and on about this adventure or that until John nodded off. There were times when he could do nothing, and Sherlock missed Mary dearly then; she would know what to say.

It was barely two months later that John wanted to retire to the country, and Sherlock, because he'd follow John to the ends of the universe should he have to, followed. They bought a cottage out in Sussex and before long John with his many, many boxes packed and loaded, and Sherlock, with the total of the skull, the magnifying glass, microscope and a certain maroon jumper amongst suits, were set to leave.

It was a long while before either of them learned to be happy again.

* * *

If anyone told Sherlock Holmes when he was in his early twenties that he'd live to see seventy, he would have scoffed and called them a few choice words, mainly comprising of idiot, hare-brained and insufferably dense. Of course no one would ever tell him this, no one else expected it either.

But now he was seventy- two, and he was as surprised as anyone else.

He coughed and got specks of blood all over the tissue and on his sleeve. The red was darker against the faded maroon. His chest was burning again, throat raw from coughing.

John bumbled into the room, holding a cup of water, his glasses sliding down his nose again. He set the cup down on the nightstand and pulled out pills. His left arm was getting stiff again, his shoulder must pain him. Sherlock felt a stab of guilt.

"Oh shut it", John said, taking the tissue from his fingers and binning it while seemingly reading his mind. "If I don't do it, who will?"

He helped Sherlock sit up and handed him some pain medication. "I do it because I want to, Sherlock."

Sherlock handed him the glass back. "Thank you, John", he rasped and proceeded to wheeze.

John rubbed his chest. "Bloody cancer. Lose everyone to it."

"Mary died of a heart attack, John", Sherlock managed to remind.

"Who cares what she died of – have to bury everyone I love, don't I." John fussed unnecessarily with the sheets and sat on them.

Sherlock's heart soared, his chest constricting with what was completely unrelated to the raging tumor. 'John –."

"Shh", John's hand came to move through Sherlock's grey curls, and it took him back. A lot of things did, now-a-days, perhaps because death drew nigh. This one was to a certain Christmas night, spent on a sofa in front of the telly. It was a life time ago.

It apparently took John to the same place.

"Remember that time we were together?" he asked, mouth curved in a reminiscent smile.

Sherlock hummed his yes. How could he forget?

"That's the time you stole this jumper and decided to keep it as your own, wasn't it?. Even though you said it was, what - ? Revolting?"

"Hideous."

John leaned down and kissed his jaw. His eyelids. His cheekbones. His lips.

Heaven was around the corner. Their tears mingled, and John laughed shakily, Sherlock grinned up at him.

"Not a bad run, then", Sherlock said scratchily. "Interesting."

"Oh yes." John kissed his palm. "Especially those bees. No one will look after them as well as you did."

"I'm sure not everyone's completely useless."

John laughed again. "Seventy two years on the planet and that's your conclusion? Everyone can't be completely useless."

"But that's a hell of a compliment, coming from you." He continued, kissing Sherlock's knuckles.

"I'll go back to London, you'll want to be buried there." He sniffled. "I'll keep Lestrade company – will probably end up burying him as well."

Sherlock nodded. They'd talked about this. They'd talked of it every day, for the past week.

They did little but talk now, Sherlock confined to the bed, John slow and unsteady on his legs. Well rather, John talked to him and he listened and grunted. Right now, he was drifting off, hand in John's hand, a whole life left behind. His would be a lonely grave, he knew, for John would choose to lie besides Mary, but at least his death wasn't lonely, and the old doctor and had given that to him. Among so, so many things: the deep, abiding friendship, the constant faith, the love and his body, even if just for a while – Sherlock had never had anyone else, he would have never wanted anyone else. John Watson showed him facets of life Sherlock thought he'd never have. Men like him usually didn't.

And now, as he floated vaguely out of consciousness, content and secure, his mind was back on his bees and the country, old age and his John.


End file.
